The Stars Were Seeing Scarlet
by Unbeautifully-Broken
Summary: The one person who could help Jane find Red John is now his victim. Jane must decide quickly-revenge or redemption? Rated for scenes of torture and angst.
1. Where Is Teresa Lisbon?

Disclaimer: I do not own the Mentalist, and will therefore cry myself to sleep tonight.

**The age**

**of man**

**is over**

**The darkness**

**comes**

**at dawn.**

**These lessons**

**that**

**we've learned**

**here**

**have only**

**just**

**begun.**

"Kings & Queens" by 30 Seconds to Mars

It occurred to Lisbon once, and only once. She had been at home one late evening, washing dishes, with the volume turned up on the television in her living room. She only ever watched the news (and sometimes, a laughable B-movie on the science fiction channel). She had just polished off the last coffee mug when she heard the familiar noise that announced a breaking news bulletin.

She turned her full attention to the television-these news stories just excited her (she knew it was pathetic). A pretty blonde woman in a tailored suit changed her expression to suit the upcoming announcement. She looked absolutely on edge; this was going to be good.

"Now, I've just been informed that a young woman named Patricia Watson has been found dead in her home this evening. A statement regarding the full extent of her injuries is not being released at this time, but she is reported to have been bound and stabbed to death." Lisbon (thanks to Jane, surely) noticed that the woman's eyes were focused hard on the prompt in front of her. She apparently was not the sort of person who enjoyed morbid details the way Lisbon did.

"Authorities report that the victim was also involved in a suspicious incident earlier this afternoon, during which she approached a uniformed police officer and claimed to have a stalker. The policeman saw that she was distraught and offered to drive her home, but the victim declined without explanation or a description of the person she believed was following her. The officer is believed to be the last person to see her alive."

It was clear to Lisbon that the blonde woman agreed with the senior agent in thinking that the policeman, who ever he had been, should have insisted upon accompanying the woman to her residence, or at least gotten a good description of the creep who probably killed her. That was standard procedure when it came to stalkers. A picture of the victim appeared on the screen. She was about Lisbon's size, with thin lips and small brown eyes. Her hair was dark brown, or maybe black. Lisbon circled the island in her kitchen and approached the screen, trying to get a better look.

That was when it occurred to her (once and only once) that she really should invest in some kind of security system. She was dangerous with her gun and could hold her own with her fists for a while, but she tired easily and if her attacker was much stronger than her or caught her without her weapon, she would be overcome-just like the woman on the screen. She didn't care much for dogs, so that was out. She could change the locks, but even rebellious teenagers could pick them if they so desired.

Her refrigerator made a loud noise as the ice machine hummed to life, and Lisbon set to putting her clean dishes away. She found a spot on one that she had missed, and she scrubbed it clean. She did not think about her security again.

**Friday**

A few weeks later, Lisbon had just walked in the door from work and her phone was ringing. She had no idea who could be calling her-had she left something at the office? The agent dropped her purse on her sofa and picked her phone up from the coffee table.

"This is Lisbon," she said, and headed to her bedroom.

"Oh hey, stranger!" Jane replied, and Lisbon could even _hear _his annoyingly charming smile.

"What do you want, Jane?" she asked, sinking down on her bed.

"Well, I just wanted to ask you something. It's not very important. I mean, it's important enough that I did need to call you, I swear. And please don't undress while we're on the phone, it's a little disturbing." She ignored him and undressed distractedly-she had so much paperwork to do in the morning, thanks to Patrick Jane. There were really some days when she had to wonder if she should shoot him. She was risking carpal tunnel as it was.

"What's so important that it couldn't wait until Monday?"

She tossed her clothes into the hamper and grabbed a robe from her closet. It was the soft, pink, fluffy one that she had gotten from Jane as a birthday gift to "bring a little colour" to her life.

"I would like you to return my copy of _Wuthering Heights. _See, it's not really mine-it's Cho's-I might have told you it was mine, though. That's not vital information."

"This whole phone call is seeming pretty non-vital to me." She padded back to the kitchen to pour herself a single glass of dark, red wine.

"Well, it is. I really, really need it back. Cho keeps asking me about it. It's quite annoying."

"Oh, I can imagine." Taking a sip of her wine, she walked across the hall to her white and black bathroom, plain except for the crown moulding, just how she wanted it. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and marveled at how much the robe stood out against everything else in the room.

"Lisbon, are you even going to remember this conversation tomorrow?"

Lisbon pulled back the shower curtain and twisted the faucet until steamy water poured down into the deep tub.

"What do you mean by that?"

"The liquor. Margarita, I'm thinking."

"It's red wine!"

"There's still alcohol in it."

"Not enough to matter."

"So why not just drink tea? If it's relaxation and not the buzz you're after, tea is a much better choice."

"I don't like tea, Jane. You like tea. I like coffee, you like tea. Say it with me."

"Do I hear water running? Are you taking a bath? I asked you not to undress whilst speaking with me! But the robe's nice, huh?"

"Shut up, Jane."

"You're really no fun when you're liquored up, Lisbon."

"That's because I can tolerate you even less when I'm drinking, Jane. Goodnight."

"Have a nice bath, and don't forget that book, or Cho will-" _Beep._

She sat along the edge of her bathtub and ran her fingers through the water until it was full, all the while thinking about silly things, a welcome change from the atmosphere of her work place.

She took off her robe and hung it on the bathroom door, then slowly stepped into the hot water. Her skin flushed red immediately, but she liked it that way. Leaning her head back against the tiled shower wall, glass of wine in hand.

_Jane would probably hate this bathroom. His is probably orange and lime green, or something like that._

Lisbon stopped herself. Why, oh why, was she thinking about the color of Jane's bathroom? While in the tub, no less?

_Because you're naked and lonely. _Lifting the full glass of wine to her lips, she chuckled under her breath. _And you can't hold your liquor._

It was most probable then that the noise she heard was real, but she wished and prayed that she had only imagined it. She absolutely hated being disturbed when she was so relaxed. She willed the noise to be something from the television. But then, she had never turned it on.

She sank down in the tub so that her lips were level with the water, and exhaled deeply, watching the ripples float down toward her toes. Then she hauled herself away from the warmth of her bath and reached for her robe. In the last second before her fingers made contact with the fuzzy material, she noticed two dark shadows inside the crack at the bottom of her bathroom door. And still, Lisbon did not think of her security. Strangely enough, she thought about her fear of being seen naked and exposed.

In less than ten seconds, the door had exploded into the room, its handle smashing into the white wall. Lisbon had grasped her robe, clutched it to her chest and raised an arm to defend her head from a blow. Her wrist was choked by hot, gloved fingers, twisted in such a way that she fell to the ground in a spasm of pain. Thinking quickly, she smashed her elbow into her attacker's shoe. He grunted in pain, then laughed as he kicked her hard in the face. Lisbon's body flew back against the side of her tub-her glass of wine shattered, spilling its dark contents inside her bath water, onto her floor, and down her back. She would have been furious at the mess, but somehow she was losing consciousness. She thought that, quite possibly, she felt those steaming, evil hands clutched around her throat. Something freezing and curiously shiny sliced into her abdomen.

And the evening had been going so well.

"Worry not, Agent Lisbon. I will be sure to leave a message for our dear friend, Mr. Jane. I sincerely apologize for my behavior, but I find myself in need of your assistance..."

Lisbon's vision clouded as Red John painted a familiar face onto the white wall of canvas.

**Monday**

Hightower marched her superbly dressed person into the bullpen at precisely 8 a.m., looking grim and serious as ever. Rigsby, Van Pelt and Cho looked at her intensely. Something was different about her face this time. Even Jane sat up on his couch, eyeing her curiously.

"I've just received word that a woman in our area was attacked last night. Before I tell you anything more, I want you to remember that we are professionals. Nothing, no matter how grisly or personal, can affect the way we handle a case. I want you all to...remember why we're doing this." Hightower paused, and before anyone else even noticed, Jane asked exactly the wrong question.

"Where is Lisbon? She's usually very punctual. And isn't she supposed to be the one telling us to behave?" Van Pelt quirked an odd smile and Rigsby broke into a wide grin. Cho looked pensive. But Jane got the answer he'd been searching for-not Lisbon's whereabouts, but Lisbon's safety. If she had been out sick or simply skipping work, Hightower would have retorted, or fired him, or maybe even shot him.

The most terrifying thing was that she did absolutely nothing. It was all in what she didn't say.

"What's going on?" Van Pelt asked, her brows knitting together. Rigsby stood at full attention. Jane felt lightheaded.

Cho's expression didn't change. He only said, "Lisbon," as though her name was foreign to him. Realization dawned on his face, years after Jane understood. Hightower swallowed.

"It's Red John," she said, but Jane was already running for the elevator.

He had never, ever driven so fast. The Citroen flew down the road at top speed, almost catapulting itself to Teresa Lisbon's home. But to Jane, the journey seemed to take years. Every red light, every stop sign saw him biting his knuckle, pulling at his blond curls, sweating and shaking. And then he was there.

There were several local police cars, an ambulance and yards and yards of yellow caution tape-it screamed "She's dead!" before he even saw a body. Jane already felt something inside him ticking for the last time, like a weary clock-or a bomb-or something else that was at its end.

But he had to see her. One wife, one child-who was Teresa Lisbon to that list? Did she even compare? Surely it wouldn't be as devastating. He could handle it. She was just a colleague...just a sort-of friend...

_No, she's so much more than that._

Jane's resolve stiffened his back and he marched forward, ducking beneath the tape, dodging the police (Cho had conveniently showed up and given him clearance), and arriving at Lisbon's front door with a blank mind and a splintered soul.

Like a ghost, he moved through her living room, down the hallway-saw her bedroom, bed still made...turned to another door...and there it was. There was where _it _ had happened. The dark red splashed on the floor, on the bathtub, in the stale water...the leering face on the wall. Even a fuzzy, pink bathrobe, stained with dried blood.

Jane felt a presence behind him-one of the local policemen-and Cho, who eyed the crime scene with the most emotion that Jane had ever seen on his face. Shock and fear...and hope.

Turning around to the dreadful mess before him, he asked the solitary question which was burning in everyone's minds, his voice sounding stronger than he thought it could.

"Where is Teresa Lisbon?"

_Criticize me. Ready, set...**go**._


	2. He Pressed Down

Warning: This chapter was not checked for grammatical/spelling errors due to a time crunch, so go easy on me :)

THANK you to my reviewers, all lovely FOUR of you! FOUR! I'm so happy :):):) I'll shout out to you in the next chapter. Thanks again :)

**Don't disturb the beast**

**The temperamental Goat**

**The Snail**

**While He is feeding on the Rose**

**Stay**

**Frozen**

**Compromise what**

**I will**

**I am**

**"Rose" by a Perfect Circle**

"Where is Teresa Lisbon?"

The question hung in the air ominously, and no one offered a possible answer. Cho stepped around the nameless officer and came to stand beside Jane; in an unusually supportive gesture, Cho lay one hand on Jane's shoulder.

"We're doing everything we can to find her," the officer said weakly, and Jane could tell just from the man's voice that this was one of his first cases in the field. "Her neighbor reported hearing noises outside this home around ten o'clock Friday night. She thought about calling the police but she said that she thought an agent 'could handle herself.' Nice neighbor, huh?" The consultant found himself quite inexplicably angry at the inexperienced man's presence. "That's an awful lot of blood..."

"Cho, make him leave. He's annoying me," Jane quipped before crouching down beside Lisbon's bath and taking a deep breath. He pointedly ignored the face on the wall.

"Jane, he has just as much right to be here-"

"Not now, okay, Cho? Thanks." Jane didn't notice if Cho escorted the man out or not. He was too busy trying to separate several very different ideas in his head. Jane had spoken to Lisbon himself around the time her unhelpful neighbor had heard a ruckus. Lisbon had been getting ready for a bath. And if he knew Lisbon, she probably locked her bathroom door, even though she lived alone. She probably hadn't thought to take her gun with her to the bathroom-or (more likely) she wasn't prone to taking firearms wi"th her to the toilet.

Scenario one. Someone impersonating Red John had broken in, caught her off-guard, knocked her in the head-Lisbon defeated her attacker, obviously, and he'd snaked off to bother someone else...and Jane's dear Lisbon, sparring partner and good friend, was off having coffee somewhere, completely unaware that everyone was worried about her, and she'd forgotten to come into work...but she was fine. And unharmed. And maybe she had a donut, too. But that didn't explain whose blood distastefully decorated the bathroom wall.

Scenario two. Lisbon had not been able to defend herself, and it was her blood. But Red John never made it difficult to find his victims. He was blatantly proud of his work.

A real idea came to Jane.

"It's different this time," he said softly, oblivious to anyone who might be listening. "He must have her. She's not like all his other victims. She's strong, and damaged, and intelligent, just like him. She just wouldn't let him kill her. She's too strong. She's alive."

Cho knelt down beside Jane and cleared his throat.

"Listen, Jane...I understand what you're going through. I know that it might not seem relevant, but I care about Teresa, too. And we have to come to terms with the idea that...given who her attacker is...she's most likely not...okay." Cho sounded so awkward, fumbling; Jane tried to believe that he meant well, but he could not bear to hear anymore. He stood and glared down at Cho, his fingers twitching slightly against his thigh.

"I don't expect her to be okay. But don't try to tell me she's dead. If you think that's going to placate me while you and every brainless rookie with a badge searches for your best agent, you're asking for far more than you're going to get." After glancing once more around the room-and at a blank-faced Cho-Jane turned to leave. Just after he'd stepped into the hall, he slapped one hand against the inside of the door and left it there, lest he feel the urge to hit something.

"Furthermore, until you've come home to find the mutilated bodies of your wife and only child, don't try to _pretend_ that you know how I feel."

Jane stalked out of the room, feeling guilt worming its way into his insides, immediately overcome by grief.

* * *

Lisbon didn't awaken slowly, and she was not groggy. Her eyes were just suddenly open, and she could clearly see that she was in a very clean, white room with no furniture, other than the table on which she lay, bound, and an old-fashioned medicine cabinet. The doors on its front were frosted glass, and the rest of its body was aluminum-also painted white. The ceiling was white, the floors were white...in her humble opinion, it wasn't half bad.

Now, if only she could move. She tried to look down to see why her side and abdomen hurt so severely, but she could not lift her head from the table.

"Hello, Teresa Lisbon. Do you remember me?"

Lisbon's head snapped to her left, and there he was, for all the world looking like a normal person, save for the mask on his face. He wore khaki pants and a navy blue shirt-and blue latex gloves.

"I do. What do you want?" she asked quietly, voice even and as cool as his. He clasped his hands in front of him, looking very relaxed.

"Only to talk with you for a while, if that's alright. And, you know, the other...oh, for Heaven's sake, we cannot carry on a pleasant conversation like this, now, can we?" He reached up to remove his mask.

Lisbon turned her head away as quickly as she could and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She hadn't yet seen his face, as he had been wearing the mask we he'd attacked her. And if it was one thing she knew very well, it was that if your kidnapper allowed you to know his face, he did not intend for you to live.

"No, no, Teresa. Look at me, please. What I have to say is very important, I assure you."

She felt his gloved hands gently grasp either side of her head and turn it to face him; Lisbon didn't struggle-what good would that do? She had no where to go, and no way to get there. And that awful curiosity that had grown inside her with age now overtook her, and she opened her eyes against her better judgment.

He smiled down at her, and the shock of seeing his face and putting his crimes to it prevented her from speaking, from really understanding.

"You seem confused, and I want you coherent. Perhaps the best way to get everything started is to remind you why you're here."

He turned to the medicine cabinet, and Lisbon felt an awful sick feeling curling inside her chest, like smoke. Like fire. The man, whom she recognized, but could not recall his name-why, after seeing him so often, had she not bothered to learn his name? How could she have been so stupid?

_Because you didn't want to think about the possibility that Red John was right in front of you. And on your side._

Red John took his time selecting something from the cabinet, and then returned to her side. It was a little silver tray with an assortment of gleaming stainless steel instruments. Lisbon struggled to control the bile climbing up her throat.

"The do-gooder in you will be delighted to know that you are my last victim. I had to wrap things up eventually, and what better way to do that than with you? Our own Agent Lisbon! Mr. Jane will surely not recover this time. It's a shame. I've enjoyed working with him."

Lisbon turned her head. She couldn't listen to this. She couldn't think about Jane. She was last, she was last, she was last. A metallic noise brought her back to her senses. He was ready.

And, by God, he was cleaning her skin with alcohol.

"As you know, this isn't the way I would normally do things. But I wanted something special for us." He wiped down the side of her cheek. "Wouldn't want anything to get infected, now, would we?"

He seemed disgusted with himself for being so benevolent. The agent squirmed on the table, twisted her arms, kicked her feet, but she didn't utter a sound. Red John placed a hand on her chest and smiled.

"I'll talk with you, like I said, to help you focus. Relax, Teresa. It will hurt less. I promise."

_Jane. Jane. Jane..._

There was something sharp against her face. She closed her eyes.

_I'm so sorry._

He pressed down.

* * *

_Review...and I'll smile really really big! Yeah! :)_


	3. Gloomy Sunday

**Note:** Thanks to all my reviewers, especially Alydia Rackham, WishIWasAussie, and NICOLEMARIE15. Your comments made this chapter practically write itself :D While I do wish to avoid a dreaded unhappy ending, there will inevitably be some gruesome stuff in this story. So, this chapter is rated T+ (pretty much an M, guys, sorry) because torture cannot be written properly without going beyond a teen rating. And it is **necessary** to note that the scenes with Lisbon and Jane are NOT happening simultaneously. *Wink* Lastly, the song Red John plays for Lisbon is Billie Holiday's "Gloomy Sunday."

* * *

With the shock of realizing her captor's identity wearing away, Lisbon was able to remember his name. She said it aloud, a question in her voice. He nodded, obviously pleased that she remembered him, and he placed his weapon back on the silver tray. Lisbon blinked. Perhaps the use of his given name was causing him to have second thoughts?

"One moment," Red John said wistfully. "Something's missing. Don't go anywhere, Beautiful."

She heard him briskly walking away, a door opening-her heart pounding-and she struggled again. This time, without him to hear her, she allowed a whimper to escape her lips. It wasn't hopeless yet, though. Someone would find her. Eventually. As long as she could think, she would know she was sane. But Lisbon forced herself to face the fact that she was going to endure something awful in a matter of minutes.

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and relaxed her entire body. She focused on putting every jumping nerve to rest. Her stomach ceased its quivering, her lips stopped trembling, and her breath came at a natural pace. Her resolve to survive hardened around her like protective armor; she would not cry. When she heard Red John returning, pushing something on a squealing cart, Lisbon knew she could withstand anything he would do to her; the reason why, though, shocked her.

_As long as it's me, and not Jane._

Red John brought the cart to Lisbon's side. On it was a brilliantly kept gramophone, a record already set to play. The queasiness returned, full-force. This was entirely unlike Red John. He was a depraved serial killer, but he was never so elaborate in his executions. He must have desperately wanted a big finish. With her palms beginning to sweat, Lisbon prayed that he wouldn't be able to control himself for long, and it would be over quickly.

"Now," he said, anticipation making his voice louder, "I hope you enjoy this. I selected this one especially for you. Feel free to ask me to adjust the volume at any time." _So conversational. So pleasant. _Lisbon chuckled to herself. _They're going to need dental records to identify my body._

In one swift movement, he'd lowered the needle to the record's surface, and a song began to play. The man smiled widely and again lifted his knife to Lisbon's cheek. This time, with the sounds of the orchestra in the background, he did not hesitate to cut her. He grinned, and Lisbon withdrew into herself.

She saw her father's face while the blood trickled down her cheek, curling around her neck and pooling in the dip between her collarbones. She remembered the smell of beer and cigarettes on his fists as he'd punished her for burning dinner. She grimaced over paperwork while Red John sliced down her side, shallow little cuts placed strategically to prolong her life (and suffering). Jane getting into trouble (blood trailing into her eyes) when he drove Mashburn's car off a cliff. Jane buying her dinner, flirting with Kristina Frye (he selected a different weapon), and Jane sleeping on his brown leather couch.

Jane's face when he was asleep-what she imagined he must have looked like before Red John had ruined him. Peaceful, happy. Whole.

_Sunday is gloomy,_

_My hours are slumberless_

_Dearest the shadows_

_I live with are numberless_

"So, Teresa, how has Mr. Jane been treating you? Not ill, I hope?"

He was talking, but he didn't expect her to answer him. It was sick, really. Maybe she was slowly losing her sanity. She barely felt anything at all...

"Never ill, then. Such a gentleman, that Jane." Another instrument grazed the top of her thigh, and it suddenly struck her that she was (probably) naked. That bothered her more than anything, so she drifted away again. Red John began speaking more quickly, obviously telling a story he found positively enthralling. Lisbon smiled (grimaced) in what she felt were the right places as goosebumps blanketed her flesh.

_Little white flowers_

_Will never awaken you_

_Not where the black coach of_

_Sorrow has taken you_

"My dear, please pay attention. It injures my pride when women find my conversation uninteresting." This time, a deep, malicious cut. Lisbon gasped in pain. Her thigh oozed blood onto the table, and Red John continued the conversation. "You cannot begrudge me this...I have nothing against you personally, of course. It's all for Mr. Jane, understand; surely you've thought of shooting him once before? No? More than once? Teresa, I'm shocked at you!"

And again he carved into her, hitting the bone. Lisbon thought she even heard the tendons being sliced apart. She recalled when she'd lost her virginity, and the boy had teased her about the size of her breasts; God, she hated being naked. She heard her blood splashing on the floor. Bile collected between her tongue and her teeth, and it spilled from her lips and dripped down her cheek, mingling with the red stain on her skin. The smell of vomit and the crushing, blistering pain brought tears to her eyes.

"Oh goodness. I should have had you empty your stomach beforehand. Too late now, I suppose."

And right _then_, as she lay exposed and steadily bleeding to death, Lisbon remembered the moment when she'd thought, _This is the happiest I've ever been, _and there she was again, with Jane. He'd just donated another of his origami creations to her collection. He leaned against the frame of her office door, smiled at her, and said _I'll never be perfect. I'll sometimes make mistakes, but I'm always going to apologize. And I'm still trying for perfection. You deserve nothing less. _He came closer, gently brushed his lips against her forehead, and walked away.

_Angels have no thought_

_Of ever returning you_

_Would they be angry_

_If I thought of joining you?_

_Gloomy Sunday_

She could _not _die. Who would take care of Jane? In one last, pitiful effort, she plead for the life that meant the most to her.

"Don't kill him. Please, please don't kill him. He's a good-he's-please," she was sobbing all of a sudden, and she couldn't fathom why. And Red John listened. He actually seemed surprised.

"My dear Teresa," he whispered, as if to a lover, "It was never my intention to kill him." A strange, dark relief began to creep over her, and Lisbon thought that, as crazy as it sounded, he was sincere. She prepared herself to die without asking God for one single thing. Then: "It is my belief that killing a man and taking away his life are not the same. Therefore, I can, with a clear conscience, assure you that I will not kill Patrick Jane. And my darling, it would benefit you not to interrupt again. It is best if you simply relax; I'll do all the talking. I'm sorry, but now I'll have to start over."

_Gloomy is Sunday_

_With shadows I spend it all_

_My heart and I_

_Have decided to end it all_

_Soon there'll be candles_

_And prayers that are said I know_

_Let them not weep_

_Let them know that I'm glad to go_

_

* * *

_

Jane paced the sidewalk in front of Lisbon's home. He plunged his hands deep into his pockets to avoid decking one of the ridiculous police officers. Hightower had arrived, and Jane was acutely aware that she and Van Pelt were watching him with superfluous caution, as if he were a direct threat to national security. Hightower's arms were crossed, and her upper torso was turned toward Van Pelt, but her feet were pointing toward Jane; she was listening to the words Van Pelt whispered, but she was ready to tackle Jane if he made one wrong move. The redhead constantly shifted her weight from one hip to the other-she was uncomfortable, severely so-she desperately needed to use the restroom-and she actually felt guilty about her bodily functions while Lisbon was missing.

Rigsby was inside Lisbon's home, Cho was still talking to that annoying forensics guy, the one Jane had met at the beginning of his career as a consultant to the CBI. Come to think of it, that man, whomever he was, had almost as much of a penchant for Red John cases as Jane.

_Wait a minute._

Something clicked in Jane's head. That man had something about him. What was his name? He always appeared whenever there was something grisly that needed sorting out...or cleaning up. And he'd been pushy once before, Jane remembered. Thin and pale, obnoxious, average. Acne on his neck. His eyes locked with Jane's suddenly, and he didn't look away.

Without taking his gaze away from the man's face, Jane started forward. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion, so sluggishly. Jane hadn't realized how much Lisbon's presence affected his mood. Cho, however, looked as blank as he ever did.

"Hello," Jane said mildly, ignoring Cho's stare. "Mr. Jane," the man said, nodding curtly.

"Forgive my inquiry, but what is your name? I've seen you before, but never bothered to ask." It was like a dream. Another idea curled up in Jane's chest and relaxed there, and he likened it to how a smoker must feel after that very first drag during a stressful day.

"Brett Partridge. Forensics analyst. And we all know who you are."

"Excellent," Jane smiled, and Cho crossed his arms.

"Jane, what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. I'm...grand," he said, still grinning as he thought of Lisbon's reaction when he would tell her that he'd been miserable without her. Assuming he ever saw her again.

Partridge looked as he had before: impatient.

"Somewhere else you need to be?" Jane inquired, taking note that this man did not seem suspicious by any means. His very being was synonymous with normality, but he was clearly trying too hard to project that image.

Which was exactly why Jane suspected him.

"Jane, Hightower is coming this way. She's probably going to tell you to get back to headquarters...she wasn't too happy about the way you rushed over here." Cho spoke quietly and finished his sentence just as Hightower tapped a finger against Jane's shoulder to get him to turn around, and he did...smiling his disarming, perfect smile.

"That's not going to work on me, Jane. I don't know what you were thinking! You never, ever just _appear_ on a crime scene without a member of the CBI with you. You are our consultant, not an agent-your presence is not _necessary_." To her credit, she spoke softly, only to him, and kept her underlying tone (and threat) well hidden, so that she didn't sound condescending. Jane nodded and clasped his hands behind his back.

"It's during times like these that the matters of what I am and the whereabouts of a missing person carry different levels of importance," he quietly reminded her. With one last glance at Partridge, Jane determined that he would keep his lips tightly sealed from that moment forward-he would only observe silently, and hope that Hightower wouldn't notice his presence. Partridge eyed him with mild interest.

"As I was saying before," he began, making his impatience clear, "while the scene makes things appear hopeless, we've determined that roughly eighty percent of the material in the bath water and on the floor is actually red wine. That explains the shattered glass, and it appears that Agent Lisbon was at least able to defend herself for some amount of time."

Jane had to lean against Cho to avoid collapsing to the ground. His chest was tightly constricted, and he placed a hand over his thudding heart. His head swam with the images of a red face, red smiles, red blood, red wine...of course, she'd been drinking wine when he'd spoken to her last. His heart broke when he remembered her voice as she protested that drinking wine did not constitute actual drunkenness. And it surely appeared that she'd hardly had enough to enjoy it.

"What about the wall? Is that wine as well?" Hightower inquired, sounding completely professional...and just a little hopeful, Jane thought.

"That...unfortunately...is dried blood, a few days old, and it matches the victim's blood type. So, in all likelihood...anyway, that's all my team has to report at this time." He seemed disgusted with himself, as though he felt he'd been entirely unhelpful.

Hightower nodded, glared at her shoes for a moment, thanked Partridge for his efforts, and left them. Jane swallowed hard. Partridge's questionable appearance temporarily forgotten, Jane's mind zeroed in on what he'd been about to say. _So, in all likelihood...Teresa Lisbon is dead._

_Death is no dream_

_For in death I'm caressing you_

_With the last breath of my soul_

_I'll be blessing you_

_Gloomy Sunday_

_Dreaming, I was only dreaming_

_I wake and I find you asleep_

_In the deep of my heart, dear_

_Darling I hope_

_That my dream never haunted you_

_My heart is telling you_

_How much I wanted you_

_Gloomy Sunday_

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Reviews make the writing soooo much easier :D So make my day, pretty please.


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